


The Oxenfurt Comma

by Beginte



Series: Winters at the Academy [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt is a disaster but he's trying, Idiots in Love, Jaskier deserves nice things, M/M, Oxenfurt Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25615294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: He pulls Roach into a halt at the inn nearest to the Academy, handing the reins off to a deathly frightened stable boy. The innkeeper’s face pales and her mouth falls open when Geralt comes in, dripping selkiemore on the floor; several patrons passing time in the lounge pause in their chatter and games of gwent. Stares and whispers abound.Jaskier asked Geralt to be his plus one to the Academy's winter solstice banquet, and Geralt is determined to be there on time and be presentable.At least one of those things goes wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Winters at the Academy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856737
Comments: 57
Kudos: 594





	The Oxenfurt Comma

Hooves clatter and strike sparks on the cobblestones as Geralt pushes Roach to gallop down Oxenfurt’s streets, drops of blood and selkiemore guts marking their path.

Darkness is falling, coming early in wintertime; a man lighting torches on the city’s streets jumps away with a yelp as Roach hurdles past him, and all of it only serves to further drill into Geralt’s mind that fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s late, _he’s_ late.

He pulls Roach into a halt at the inn nearest to the Academy, handing the reins off to a deathly frightened stable boy. The innkeeper’s face pales and her mouth falls open when Geralt comes in, dripping selkiemore on the floor; several patrons passing time in the lounge pause in their chatter and games of gwent. Stares and whispers abound.

At least the innkeeper is too stunned to protest when Geralt slams a bag of coin on the counter, asks for the reservation Jaskier had made in his name, and requests a bath, quick as they can. She recovers enough to give Geralt the key and room number; Geralt goes upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

In his room he tosses his pack by the bed and strips out of his gore-soaked clothes; they land on the floor with a viscerally wet slap. His hair keeps dripping, and in the closed room he’s finally hit with his own stench.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The urgency crawling under his skin is beginning to tip over into panic. He’d promised, he’d fucking promised Jaskier that he would make it back in time, that he would be there.

The Oxenfurt Academy is throwing a banquet to celebrate the winter solstice. It’s an annual thing, and Jaskier always mentions something particularly scandalous, salacious, or simply idiotic that happened during it, each time they reunite in spring. Or, at least, he used to, before Geralt started taking him to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

This year the winter is mild, enough so that not all monsters will spend it asleep, and so Geralt stayed behind, escorting Jaskier to a winter semester at the Academy and then proceeding to never stray far from Oxenfurt, taking contracts in the area and spending the winter in Jaskier’s city, by his side.

And Jaskier invited him to come with him to the Academy’s banquet. And then Geralt got a series of contracts not far from the city. And he promised Jaskier he’d be back on time. And now he’s fucking late.

Geralt isn’t well versed in social etiquette, but even he knows that being stood up to an event like this is shit.

The inn is large enough to keep hot water ready in the winter, and two maids carry a full tub into the room; they don’t flinch, like an almost-naked, monstrous witcher covered in rotting guts is not the worst thing they’ve seen in this room. Come to think of it, it probably isn’t. Still – Geralt is going to leave a few coins under his pillow when he quits the room.

Fuck, he really stinks.

“Soap,” he grunts at the maids. “I need soap. Lots of it.”

“Aye, and we have it for you, sir,” says one of them; she proceeds to take fragrant blocks out of her apron and stack them on the small table next to the tub. “And your companion, Master Jaskier, when he made the reservation for you he also left some clothes for you – we'll bring them right up.”

“And some extra water for rinsing,” adds the other maid, already on her way out the door.

Calm, unbothered. Indifferent. Geralt is grateful.

“Thank you,” he manages, his voice awkward even to his own ears.

He waits for them to return with the clothes, bath sheets and three extra buckets of water, and then leave, before he strips out of his smallclothes and gets in the tub. Discoloured slime immediately coats the surface.

“Fuck.”

Not wasting any more time, Geralt sets about furiously scrubbing every inch of his body with soap and washcloth; Jaskier needs him presentable, so by the gods, he _will be_ presentable. Grime slowly peels away, revealing winter-pale skin and the scars marring it. The water keeps getting dirtier. With his skin thoroughly dealt with, he pulls the tie out of his hair and mashes soap into it, drags his fingers through the tangles until they give way; he rinses and repeats until the last of the guts and stench is gone, replaced by cleanliness and the crisp scent of lavender. He stands in the bath, dumps the last bucket of water over his head, and shakes off.

He makes quick work of drying himself off with the bath sheet; his hair, for all the wringing and squeezing, remains damp. Fuck. Maybe no one will notice. He gathers it with his usual tie.

(If he'd been on time, there would have been a spare moment for Jaskier to comb his hair, maybe plait part of it into one of those unassuming but intricate patterns Jaskier likes so much. Weave it with practised, gentle touches, fondness tucked into every movement, sending Geralt into something that feels so much better than meditation. But Geralt is late – so there wasn't any time for this today.)

The clothes Jaskier left for him are a surprise. They're an exact copy of his favoured shirt and trousers. The exact same simple design that he's had made and re-made for close to a century, down to the smallest detail. Except they're clean and brand new, not a thread out of place.

And there's something else that's new – a doublet to go with them. It's also black, in a cut and style that evokes Geralt's armour, but sleek and elegant; the faux straps across the chest are mere decoration; the buttons are round and silver, embossed with an intricate pattern. When he shrugs it on, the fabric sounds and feels expensive. It's a close fit, much slimmer than the padding of his armour, but not as slim as Jaskier would have chosen for himself.

It's... nice. Geralt likes it, almost against his better judgement. It isn't an attempt at hiding his identity as a witcher, but it's elegant, and he thinks it's probably fashionable. It's Jaskier who commissioned it, after all.

He makes himself glance in the mirror hanging near the wardrobe. He looks... fine, he supposes. The doublet fits him well. He immediately imagines at least three ways he might ruin it.

Geralt isn't exactly sure what's the point. Fine clothes or not, there's no concealing his white hair or inhuman yellow eyes. Bit like putting lipstick on a pig. But Jaskier went to the trouble of choosing the clothes, coming up with something Geralt would actually like and, most of all, Jaskier for some reason wants Geralt there, among his colleagues, so Geralt _will_ be there.

The Academy's bell chimes the hour and a quarter. The banquet began on the hour.

Fuck.

Geralt pulls a knife out of his pack and hides it in his clothes, just in case, and bolts out of the room. He thunders down the stairs, out of the inn, and into the cold winter night. He runs the short distance to the Academy, past its ornate wrought iron gates, and in between the stately buildings making up the complex.

He slows down when he reaches the building dedicated to faculty banquets and other ceremonies, and tries to look like he belongs here as he trails a few steps behind a chattering group of guests arriving late. The servants at the door don't bat an eyelash as he walks in, and he realises his muscles had locked up in tension only when he feels them relax as he crosses the threshold.

He doesn't have a cloak or a winter coat to deposit, so he moves down the dimly-lit foyer towards a set of ancient-looking double doors thrown open and framed with curtains gathered at the sides. Past them, he's flooded with the sounds and sights of the party, and he keeps to the wall as he scans the room with practised quickness.

It's surprisingly bearable. People mingle; the band plays something cheerful yet quiet; drinks are laid out on tucked-away tables, and the main table is set for dining, but left ignored for now. There's a veneer of academic stuffiness, but the seven liberal arts clearly have been unleashed, if some people's clothes and the atmosphere of ease are anything to go by.

Geralt searches the room for a familiar doublet, dark hair, beautiful face, and that voice.

"Yes, and positively dripping with blood!" exclaims some woman in a scandalised tone, walking past Geralt with her equally excited companion. "Galloping through the town!"

"Ah, shit," mutters Geralt, and he abruptly turns to the drinks table; he's going to need something stronger.

He pours himself the most potent-smelling wine and tries to look calm and non-murderous as he looks around.

There.

He spots Jaskier halfway across the room, standing resplendent in a vibrant blue doublet with dusty golden trims and looking right at Geralt as he idly plucks at a bunch of grapes.

Geralt breathes, adrenaline at last laid to rest, and he strides over, Jaskier's lips stretching in a smile as the distance between them shrinks.

"Yes, some masked rogue, I hear!" gabbles a man passing them by. "Leaving a trail of blood on the streets!"

Jaskier cackles, throwing his head back in delight; Geralt growls and wishes the floor would just open up under his feet.

"Oh, you've been busy, my dear!" Laughter trembles in Jaskier's voice and glimmers in his eyes, and Geralt feels his lips twitch in response.

"Sorry I'm late," he grunts.

"That is absolutely fine – fashionable, even! And do you know, I've been so caught up hearing all about this mysterious bandit galloping into town. Apparently, his horse is a massive steed that breathes fire! Geralt, what have you done to Roach?"

Geralt groans, and Jaskier laughs again and pulls him into a kiss. This is something Geralt can do. So he does it. Thoroughly.

"Mmm, I missed you, my dear," hums Jaskier when they pull apart. "And you look lovely, might I add."

Jaskier's eyes are dark with appreciation, and Geralt feels his face warm.

"Thanks," he grunts. "For... this." He gestures vaguely at the doublet, feeling awkward; the way Jaskier's face lights up makes it better and worse all at once.

"Do you like it?" whispers Jaskier, not a trace of flippancy or nonchalance; only care and thoughtfulness, the very same that shows in every line and fold of the doublet on Geralt's back.

Geralt nods. "Yes," he says, because it's the truth.

The light in Jaskier's smile is blinding.

"I'm glad," he says, and cards a hand through Geralt's hair. "Oh, Geralt – did you get eaten by a selkiemore again?"

"Hmm."

"What _am I_ going to do with you." Jaskier plucks Geralt's goblet from his hand and takes a swig. "Mm. Truth be told, I tend to miss you terribly during these solstice banquets."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I don't know why, but I do. They serve onion soup as one of the courses, maybe that's what sets me off."

Geralt sighs, but allows his lips to twitch in a smile when Jaskier bumps playfully into his side.

A distinguished elderly woman is moving towards them, dressed in official-looking robes and accompanied by three other people. Geralt is distracted by recognising Priscilla among them, but he still senses Jaskier shift beside him. He doesn't tense, exactly, but his posture changes, almost imperceptibly to someone who doesn't know him. But Geralt does know him, so he sees Jaskier's shoulders pull back, past what is his already good posture. He sees him stand straighter, sees his charm shimmer into politeness with a hint of deference.

Geralt tries not to hunch or look too off-putting.

Jaskier calls her Madam Rector and when he introduces Geralt to her, the pride in his voice makes Geralt want to snarl and hide. Or do something disgusting, like eat that entire loin of pork on the table with his bare hands.

She doesn't stay long, and when she strides off to speak with other people, Priscilla and another professor stay behind. Jaskier's body relaxes, leans into Geralt's and stays there.

"Have you heard?" says the professor whose name Geralt didn't bother to remember. "Some mysterious blood-spattered rogue galloped into town at sundown!"

"Please, I've been here for fifteen whole minutes, of course I've heard the story ten times already," says Priscilla, after which she gives Geralt a knowing wink.

Fuck.

"I heard he was quite dashing!" pipes up another person joining their group.

"Mm, yes, I hear he had a very shapely arse," leers Jaskier, while his hand discreetly slips down Geralt's back to palm Geralt's own arse.

" _Jaskier_."

Priscilla laughs into her wine.

After that it's... surprisingly not bad. Braced for pomp and self-importance, Geralt discovers that academics take their field of work seriously, but not themselves. Heated arguments break out over the precise interpretation of some passage in some ancient text, and about a fucking _comma_ of all things. The others cheer and heckle.

There is a series of elaborate drinking games, and Geralt finds himself applauding when Priscilla wins one of them; Jaskier loses in a truly spectacular fashion.

The mysterious rogue covered in blood is the talk of the party, because Geralt has never missed an opportunity to piss upwind.

When, some hours later, Jaskier suggests they call it a night, Geralt is surprised to find that he isn't exhausted. Of course he's ready to leave, because he's ready to leave any party as soon as he fucking arrives at it, but what's missing is the usual bone-deep weariness, threat of a headache, and a feeling like someone had rubbed his skin with sandpaper.

"I thought we could stay in your room at the inn tonight," says Jaskier as they walk out into the foyer where he picks up his cloak.

"Why?" Geralt knows from experience Jaskier's rooms at the Academy's faculty quarters are more than comfortable enough for them both.

"Well, I know you want to rest, and believe me, there will be none of that at the faculty quarters tonight – drunk academics singing and slamming doors and fucking in the corridors well past dawn. _Trust me_."

"All right." Geralt slips an arm around Jaskier's waist, and they step out into the cold.

Jaskier is... quiet. Which is almost never a good sign. Geralt holds him close as they walk down empty streets, Jaskier biting on his bottom lip; it'll be chapped tomorrow.

"Jaskier?"

"I'm sorry," Jaskier sighs, and Geralt is so surprised that he stops in the middle of the street.

"What?"

"I know... parties aren't your thing, my love. I wanted you there for selfish reasons, yes, but I also... I thought, well. The solstice banquet isn't like all those dreary and politically charged royal affairs. I thought you might enjoy it, maybe. The food and the drink, a friendly face or two. A nice new doublet. I just wanted to give you some nice things, but I think I may have gone about this the wrong way. I'm sorry, Geralt." He thumps his forehead onto Geralt's chest and stays there.

Geralt stares.

"I like the doublet," he says, because he does, he really, really does, even if he shouldn't like something this nice, something that Jaskier put so much thought and care (and money) into, and which Geralt could ruin so easily with the life he leads. But fuck, he does like it. "A lot."

Jaskier lifts his head and peers at him.

"Good. Because you look gorgeous. And _I_ look forward to taking it off you. So you see, a self-serving gift, after all. Truly selfish of me."

Geralt rumbles a laugh, brushes Jaskier's fringe into place where the winter wind has swept it into a mess.

He thinks back over the past hours; the party _was_ fine. No royalty, for one thing. The wine was good. _Really_ good. He enjoyed talking to Priscilla and Essi. He was amused by academics bickering over commas and fairy tales instead of social status or gambling with real people's lives in the name of political deals struck under a royal table. Even people talking about him was amusing, because they didn't know they were actually doing it.

But most of all, he liked Jaskier – being by his side, watching him perform with his friends. Being shown around like he's something valuable, something Jaskier is proud of.

He looks at Jaskier, at his earnest blue eyes, at the playful spark present even now, when he worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Parties... are not my thing," he admits, and fuck, something falls in Jaskier's eyes, so he hurries to fix it, to patch the mess he's making with his words. "But this one was fine. I liked it. But... You. I liked _you_."

He presses his lips together, feels awkward; the scraps of thoughts and rushing feelings are blurry, and he feels dull and unpractised, trying to match them with the right words. He takes Jaskier's hand, looks him in the eye. This is important.

"You're a nice thing."

"Oh..." says Jaskier and then, wonder of wonders, he hides his face in Geralt's neck, hot with embarrassment.

Geralt rumbles a soft, quiet laugh and loosely wraps an arm around him, shields him from the cold winter night.

"Oh, damn you, my dear," says Jaskier, voice trembling with laughter and emotion. "And then you have the gall to say you don't do words."

"Hmm."

"Oh – _hmm_ , he says now! Piss off, will you. Honestly!" Jaskier throws up his hands, and Geralt laughs and pulls him into a kiss.

Jaskier looks placated when they part, lips red with the cold and the kiss.

"Come on, then. I didn't have time to plait your hair tonight, but don't think you're getting out of it tomorrow."

Geralt hums, allows himself to smile; there's no escaping the knowing, fond look in Jaskier's eyes, and Geralt realises he doesn't want to.

Around them, the year's longest night crests and tips over its peak. From now, the days will get longer and longer, stretching towards spring – and towards the Path again.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally I present to you: the first fic in the companion series to my [ Winters at Kaer Morhen ](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793290).
> 
> In other news: I continue to Have Feelings about those two idiots.


End file.
